This Week in Milford

February 24, 2021

Oh Godleski, Not This Again!

Hey look, some hoops action that doesn’t involve injury, unless you count the bruises the ball’s getting being clanked off the rim. No Muench and a sluggish Guthrie mean the Mudlarks are struggling until Mark Godleski puts one in, then catches fire after Vic eggs him on. Oh my! George Takei‘s not gonna be too happy with Vic’s second Bermanism (Doucetteism?) as Mark hits the no-look fadeaway jumper. Will the next basket be made by Mark “look at those” Godles”(s) heathens making the horns at me behind Vic’s back” ki?

I’m getting the sense here that the Tilden game, while not making or breaking the Mudlarks’ season (they’re not contending for the Valley, or else we’d have heard about it by now), may be dispositive of several characters’ futures. Vic’s gonna Vic and a future calling celebrity softball games awaits him. Muench will play at least another season of baseball as he’s the current version of Paul Beaudry. As for Guthrie, it will be time for him to fish or cut bait between hoops and wheels. He hurts the Mudlarks more than helps them, so maybe he’s best cut out for the garage. Still you’d think if all that time with his tailbone two inches from the ground was propelling his racing career forward we’d have heard about it by now. Doug should ask Corina if Valley Mod has any automotive technician programs and think about transferring there.

February 23, 2021

This Machinery Is No Joy.

Filed under: Gil Thorp — tdrewhardin @ 12:01 pm

As long as Thorpiverse is going to throw William Blake our way, I just thought I’d shoot back a repartee. As I read it, Father Vittorini quoted Blake in Ray Bradbury’s classic, “Are we not God’s Machineries of Joy?” to which Father Brian responded “God never lived in Milford”.

And there is no joy in Milford, at least for Butt Muench as he is relegated once again to the bench cheering on his Mudlarks to victory. And Tilden has been generally willing cannon fodder whenever people like Doug Guthrie have their heads stuck up the fuel pump and Milford needs an event-person-rent a Messiah to kickstart what should have been kickstarted two months ago. Eating at The Diner can only go so far as to working out possible glitches in the playbook or plotline. Finish those oversteamed green beans, leave Maureen a generous tip and let’s play some basketball without detouring to Talladega. Damn, that might beat Tilden.

Today’s headline in the Milford Enquirer

“Investigation Ongoing As Probe Deepens At O.J.’s Condo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“Detective Friday: ‘Our stakeout has hope but we need more Milford Lotto tickets if we’re going to build a case.'”

Gang, don’t you remember Pin the Tail on the Donkey at those birthday parties we all went to when we were kiddies? Sure you do. And those were fun times and a part of our past. It’s a shame that Pin the Tail on the Action is part of our present. As in right now.

Let’s start with Muench’s attire. Frank Ramsey, one of the UK greats, continued his basketball savvy in the NBA, being a formidable 6th man for the Boston Celtics in their Championship runs. When John Havlicek was a rookie, Ramsey showed him the best way to drop your warm-ups when Red Auerbach, the Hall of Fame coach called your number. Didn’t want to look like a dimbulb when checking in. If you couldn’t get your joggers off cleanly, what made Auerbach think you could guard Elgin Baylor or Hal Greer? Don’t EVEN think of stopping Wilt on a 3-on-1 at the other end. Made sense.

It looks like Muench is in a Frank Ramsey position so if Gil actually wants to start coaching and Doug or somebody else is stoned like Syd Barrett, Muench can rip that halogen-infested jogger right off even if the ankle is a little tender. Hey, William Blake never played for the Celtics. I bet HE didn’t have to face Jerry West when West was shooting a career night. Just go easy on the instep and you got those sweats off all over Kaz’s head and you’re out on the court in no time flat.

And you’re going to need sweat-pants-doffing aplomb if you want to deal with Waffle Iron Head. Does he comb his hair with a welder’s torch? One thing’s for certain, his defense sucks as Ditzy Doug palms the ball and really should be called for it but hey, if he’s headed towards the basket (the jury’s still out) , I’m sure the refs will cut him some slack. We ARE at Milford after all, where Homer got its origin (not Late Latin like some of you readers keep insisting on) . And WHAT is Muench gazing at when he’s not goin’ Frank Ramsey on us? The ball is in front of him but I guess if you stare at the basket long enough, you’ll start scoring. Yeah, think positive. So THAT’s what Wilt should have done when he was fronting Russell all those years. Lord knows he was fixated on Hershey’s rims the night he scored 100.

And maybe Frank Ramsey can teach Waffle Iron Head how to rip his cap off so hair doesn’t get stuck on the bill of the cap. Don’t want Coach Auerbach to know we can’t take off our cap without having to back ’em down in the paint.

If ya comb yore hair with a strainer cuz ya gotta git all the fleas ‘n’ tics ‘n’ gnats ‘n’ flies offa yore scalp that yore bloodhound passed off ta ya, ya might be a redneck.


Oh, it’s just Gil telling Curtis before he became Kurtis Blow to get his butt in the game, Doug’s at the raceway, literally and figuratively. We learn a valuable history lesson, a Funkmeister became that way because another player on the team was calling the shots and, duh, it hurt that player’s game. Funk was famous because someone else refused to take one for the team.

And Cato, er, Gil, when is this charade with Doug going to end? No player on the face of the planet tells his basketball coach when he can play in a game, let alone show up at practice when they durn well please, like the other day. What did you expect, Gilberto, a laser-like focus to fix Tilden’s wagon after a conversation with Joe Friday over what happened at Daytona this week? I doubt Kurtis Blow was performing in Minneapolis last night before he got in his uniform right as he got off the plane. Not even Frank Ramsey can perform miracles. What do you tell the stewardess? Is there a dressing room, I’m the starting center tonight and somebody needs to be there for the opening tap. Sure, Kurtis, right down the hallway to the right. Mr. Ramsey used to use this room when the Celtics went to overtime.

And if Muench ever needed the extra space, he can always open the window. Hang suspended at 10,000 feet while he’s working his sweats around the sprain, talk about Machineries of Joy. About the ONLY joy so far. Do we have to cling to the fuselage to get it?

Special Edition to the Milford Enquirer

“Sting Operation Goes Awry At The Milford-Tilden Game!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“Detective Friday found that Doucette had no record and that the concession stand was only trafficking hot dogs and relish.”

8:17PM-It was getting close to halftime and Gannon and I hadn’t sniffed out a pretzel. Captain was pressing the issue to get this oversized cheeseburger blown open but the closest we could get to Doug was to razz him when he blew the layup. This stakeout on the bleachers was only getting us a program with tonight’s starting lineup.

DOUUUGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ARLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


We got our break. What idiot would cheer on someone when he needup target practice 2 feet near the basket? Gannon and I had to move fast

“Police officers!!!!!!!!!!!! Just hold it right there!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Sir, I have to announce the winning number for the Brunswick Bowling Ball, hang on.”

“Yeah, they said the same thing last week when they were carjacking Marty Moon at Mudlark Lake Resorts!!!!!!!!! Spread ’em and don’t try anything funny. Read him his rights, Bill.”

“Hang on, Joe, I have a couple of questions. Son, why would you cheer on a bad play? And do you realize that Arlo is under suspicion for reckless driving and drug possession? When he shoots free throws by bouncing the ball off his head, don’t you think he’s a bit stoned? Or does he do the same thing with the rubber mats against the wall?”

“You gotta understand Doug. He needs encouragement. He gets down on himself when he makes a bad play. So I egg him on, good or bad. And sometimes he needs to get refocused on basketball, especially if he gets cooped up in a go-kart all day. He’s just bonking himself to get his bearings. I mean, he was doing The Charleston every time he’d inbound the ball after his 17th-place finish at the Indy 500. And he did the King Tut Dance during a 20-second time out after the Daytona weekend.”

“Don’t get funny with us, punk!!!!!!!!!! Okay, we got nothing on you although I could nail you on Milford City Ordinance Code 12 Article 73 Section 734 “Public Falsification of Reasonable Occurences with Intent for Malicious or Unpalatable Advantages” but the ref just called for everybody to get back on the floor. But stay clean until we meet again if you don’t want a night with Otis!!!!!!”

“I understand. Want some nacho chips? The dip is still warm.”

“No, Son, Mr. Friday just had his upper plate drilled this week. Just keep your nacho dip and your reputation in the same paper tray.”

Somber music wafts in the gym

“Dr. Pearl, these Coed Gym Class Reports-2015 are burned to a crisp.”

“Ohhhh, I apologize, Gil. I told my student aide not to use the waffle iron this time.”

Now wait just a cotton’ pickin’ minute, Gil. You talk about the pot calling the kettle Mudlark. Coming from the same guy who was on the same poetic wavelength in the trainer’s room when he should have been out on the floor blowing the whistle and conducting something called PRACTICE. That’s that thing where you work on plays and defensive sets so you don’t get caught with your buffon hairdo down like what occurred with Oakwood. I know some things seem strange and unfamiliarity results when players set their own agenda and you set YOUR OWN AGENDA by not showing up half the time. What did you expect Spacehead to do, go out and deftly lead the team to victory in a Rocky setting? Rocky can only do that if Mickey Goldmill is around for the match. It does no good for Rocky to be chasing that chicken all over your verandah in those workouts, Mickey, if you’re non-existent. To paraphrase Rocky, Doug would be a Kentucky-Fried idiot. There is no way he can beat Apollo Creed in a game of H-O-R-S-E when those chickens are in your trunk and you’re chickening at the Milford Lounge. Wake up, indeed.

When Rocky was running in a final flourish at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Doug was running his mouth in a final flourish. Like coach, like son.

Speaking of the place, it has become a tourist attraction with the Rocky statue at the base of the steps. And the 72 steps of film history are naturally called the Rocky Steps. Hmmmmmmmm

At a State park near Milford

“I am Spartacus!!!!!!!!!!!! I can conquer anything!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Creed is mine when his team comes to town!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Goodness, Gil’s been a beast since they named that entranceway to the outhouse ‘The Gil Steps’.”

There’s plenty of machinery in P3. How much joy is debatable. I can spot the obvious first. The placard holder is arguably the most conspicuous and with the most resolution. He doesn’t resemble the house slippers your dog used to chew on when you were a kid like most of the rest of P3. And even THAT is not really encouraging. For all we know, he’s advertising for Milford Diner. Well, shoot, Maureen can’t be there, SOMEBODY has to be there to take the order of Lobster Claws and Salisbury Steak Buffet.

And I can say without fear of contradiction that that is Kurtis Blow checking into the game for Doug the Head Butt-er Upper. I’m still scratching the noggin a little why he is facing straight ahead when Larry the Placard Guy is pointing his “Milford Diner-I’m Lovin’ It” towards the end of the court where the basket is presumably located but let’s not get greedy here. I learned that as a coach.

NOW who is the Tilden dude talking to on the left side? Does he want Vic to get some more napkins after he spilled ketchup on his uniform? Is he calling Milford Exterminators to remove the bed bugs from the floor? Is he telling the ref to watch the shoves underneath? The fact that I have to sort through some sordid scenarios is making this dearth of machinery OR joy that much more gloomy, Gus.

And what is the Tilden player doing spreading his legs? I thought Joe Friday already attempted a bust. He can’t be taking a whiz but with the way the artwork has been transcending the barriers of reality, you can never answer with 100% certainty. Maybe his jock strap itches and he’s just trying to get more comfortable. Who cares about the crowd? You can’t tell them apart anyway. Scratch away, the crowd’s in Jackson Pollack form anyhoo, they’ll never know.

I mean, I never knew I could be Pac-Man and run from Inky, Blinky, Winky, and Clyde and form several escape routes and that would be my drawings for today’s audience. The Tilden contingent I believe is on the left side of the smudge marks. But check me on that.

Today’s Black History Month entry is Tom Rucker who was an NCAA Man’s Basketball official for 30 years, mainly in the Big Ten Conference. He was one of the first African-Americans to don the zebra stripes and did so with class and a high standard of professionalism. He never played organized basketball but started officiating in the Detroit School System while attending Wayne State University to make ends meet. A University of Detroit coach liked what he saw and Rucker found himself officiating a Detroit game when one member of the officiating crew didn’t show. He eventually worked his way up, becoming a fixture in Big Ten action, including postseason. He had to shake off racial slurs from the hecklers for a few years but people saw he was for real and the loudmouths disappeared. He worked several NCAA Regionals plus 4 Final Fours and 2 National Championship Games. Referees dream to work ONE Championship Game but Rucker doubled the dream. He must have done something right.

I always thought he was fair and honest and HUSTLED to get in position for the call; plus anybody who can hang up the whistle and still have a conversation with Bob Knight, a noted battler with the zebras, when all is said and done deserves everybody’s respect. Please join me in saluting a man who proved you can be upright in your decisions regardless of your color. Thank you, Tom Rucker. You did the Game proud.



“The story you just read is true. The names have been changed to save further embarrassment to this farce.”

“On October 25th, trial was set at the Milford Superior Court, Judge Melvin Q. Snerdly presiding. In a moment, the results of that trial.”

In the back yard of the Shaw residence, Coach Shaw locked in his Civil Defense shelter

“Honeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy, I’m hornyyyyyyyyyy. Why are you shut off from the rest of the world??????”

“Damn, Mrs. Shaw, how’d you find me?”

“You left a trail of toilet paper.”

“The price I pay when I am securing myself against the curs of this planet. They’ll never find me here!!!!!!”

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

“Damn, Woman, don’t you read the papers????? Milford Men’s Clinic was caught ethical un-outsourcing with other countries. They had to go to some dictatorship in Panama to ship its sexual chemical stimulants. If I have to hike the jungles of Costa Rica after their President shot dissidents in the head, I’ll stay right here in my shelter until it blows over.”

“I’d like things to blow over and they will once you open the door.”

“NO WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! I ain’t gettin’ pumped up by a company that does business with Crete. I understand they have sweatshops do their dirty work. I don’t buy pills from foreign child labor. I’ll take my Pals from the good ol’ USA anytime.”

“And I’ll take my Pal once he opens the door.”

“It’s a cruel world, Mrs. Shaw. I won’t make it any crueler buying from a place that foments riots in the streets. That incident in Helsinki was a conflagration made in Hell. My Significant Other will do business with other legitimate establishments of business if that means I gotta buy from a hot dog stand.”

“I also came to tell you that The Clinic Board of Directors fired their CEO. They retracted all his transactions. I saw the film at 11 on WDIG-News.”

” I guess I had to open the door. When they were willing to cut their losses, I had to cut mine. And they did have treatment programs that work. With a staff that is certified Gold by the American Medical Association, isn’t it time to inventory your own sexual outsourcing? Me and Mrs. Shaw have been outsourcing under the sheets for several days and it’s funner ‘n’ barrel of diet pills. Come do your own outsourcing here at Milford Men’s Clinic.”

“The Milford Superior Court found a one Douglas Guthrie guilty of 3 counts of Reckless Abandonment of Player Responsibility which is punishable under the Milford Penal Code by a fine of $15,000 or 3 years probation or both and with 2 counts of Unlawful Usage of Oversized and Unaccounted-for Vehicles and Unwieldy Usage Thereof which is punishable under the Milford Municipal Code by revocation of driving privileges set for a period no more than 21 months but less than the period designated by a committee which duly appoints the hours leading to the demarcation as outlined by the statutes henceforth stated in the committee recommendation that expresses said penal measures.”

“Doug Guthrie is currently serving his probation working at Grease Monkey as an oil changer.”

February 22, 2021

Until The Fools Get Wise

Filed under: Gil Thorp, Pointy Fingers, Trainer Rick Scott — nedryerson @ 2:19 pm

Mr. Muench says he’s ready to go, but apparently Trainer Rick Scott needs to sign off on this before Gil makes a decision. Sorry, Tom, but you don’t have a gold watch so your opinion is not part of the decision process.

Trainer Rick Scott reads lots of William Blake between appearances so he has a quote ready to go to override Tom Muench in a cryptic fashion. Then Gil gets to show off his education by identifying the source of the quote. They’ve probably been using this schtick since the fifties, or since whenever Captain Picard fell through the wormhole which led to him becoming an athletic trainer for a high school’s sports program. Who are you kidding, Gil? You’re more likely to quote Robert Blake than William Blake and that’s the name of that tune.

Heck, I’d rather binge watch Baretta myself than dive into this stuff:

“Proverbs of Hell”:

In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy. Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead. The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity. He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence. The cut worm forgives the plow. Dip him in the river who loves water. A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star. Eternity is in love with the productions of time. The busy bee has no time for sorrow. The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure. All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap. Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth. No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings. A dead body, revenges not injuries. The most sublime act is to set another before you. If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. Folly is the cloke of knavery. Shame is Prides cloke. ~ Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion. The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God. Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps. The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the    destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man. The fox condemns the trap, not himself. Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth. Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep. The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship. The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that    they may be a rod. What is now proved was once, only imagin’d. The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit: watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse,    the elephant, watch the fruits. The cistern contains; the fountain overflows. One thought, fills immensity. Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you. Every thing possible to be believ’d is an image of truth. The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow. ~ The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion. Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night. He who has suffer’d you to impose on him knows you. As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers. The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction. Expect poison from the standing water. You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough. Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title! The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth. The weak in courage is strong in cunning. The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse,    how he shall take his prey. The thankful reciever bears a plentiful harvest. If others had not been foolish, we should be so. The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil’d. When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius, lift up thy head! As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest    lays his curse on the fairest joys. To create a little flower is the labour of ages. Damn, braces: Bless relaxes. The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest. Prayers plow not! Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not! ~ The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands &    feet Proportion. As the air to a bird of the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible. The crow wish’d every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white. Exuberance is Beauty. If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning. Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement,    are roads of Genius. Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires. Where man is not nature is barren. Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ’d. Enough! or Too much!

Here’s a song by Felt that popped into my head. Maybe Lawrence, the enigmatic singer and lyricist was thinking about Blake, or maybe not. I think he was more into Rimbaud (and smack).

February 20, 2021

Some Wak! Haiku

Tom Muench on the bench

And Doug Guthrie off his game:

Central by thirteen

But it’s not a bench

It’s only a folding chair

Thanks to budget cuts

“Everything happens

For a reason” – Grandma Muench

Like ankle sprains

Anytime Doug makes

Car-related decisions

Mudlarks always lose

Vic Doucette could see

Doug was no Schumi when he

Smacked him on the ass

Clearly Doug isn’t

Firing on all cylinders

He needs a tuneup

Gil needs to send him

To a garage upstate where

He can drive all day

February 19, 2021

Oh for chrissakes let it go already!

Filed under: freak hands, shadow figures, talking hand — robmize2013 @ 8:25 pm

The plot is now spinning its wheels as if it were stuck in the snow we’ve gotten over the past month. I get home from Muskegon Feb 1 and there’s a foot on the ground. Then last Monday we get 17 inches more. A reporter on the radio said his table in the yard had 35 inches of snow on it. Sheesh, if I stood on top of the snow piles at the bottom of my driveway I could see the top of my roof. My neighbors have 2 grills and furniture on their deck, and theyre all loaded with snow. Roofs are collapsing every day out here, and I’m praying one of those huge icicles doesnt slice me in half when I walk under em delivering packages to houses. The business strip mall I service is like an ice rink with inumerable hazards on the ground and above.At least the parking lot is clean. Ive got so much salt on the bottom of my shoes I could fill my shaker in the kitchen. My car was so dirty last week I couldnt find it in the parking lot at the grocery store. Hasnt been purple in a while. I went to the car wash and came out driving a block of ice on wheels.

And did I mention we hardly had anything in December and January? Ah, winter in the Midwest.

The 2 guys are engaged in a discussion connected to being late because the cop stopped him and yada yada yada. Yeah everything happens for a reason. But nothing has happened in a week in this plot, and that cop basically stopped Doug twice, and wasted Both of their time in the process. Is Tom on crutches? For a mild sprain? I’d say anything mild you just walk it off and limp around for a day or 2. I never once needed them and I’m sure I sprained my ankles half a dozen times here and there. So Im calling bullshit on the diagnosis.

And shouldnt Doug be ahead of Tom, holding the door for HIM, instead of vice versa? When anyone figures that out, let me know.

February 18, 2021

Don’t Bogart This Plot, Thorpiverse.

Filed under: Gil Thorp — tdrewhardin @ 1:41 pm

Any of you who saw the movie “Easy Rider” surely remember songs like “Born to be Wild” by Steppenwolf (yes, named after Hesse’s novel) and “I Wasn’t Born to Follow” by The Byrds. Thrown in the mix was a clanky tune which was about as Honky-Tonk and cheap and trashy and gaudy as all get out called “Don’t Bogart That Joint”. And naturally, people wondered what in the name of Maureen at The Diner did it mean. Well, yours truly is like his dad, he didn’t like getting left hanging with this one so he checked a dictionary online and the definition was somewhat inconclusive, given the nature of the word and the ensuing possiblities; still, what the dictionary site eventually proffered made sense so I’m going with my gut.

Anybody who has watched Humphrey Bogart movies, such as “Casablanca” has seen him frequently with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth (precursor, perhaps, to Jimmy Dean years later in the same pose) , essentially oblivious to the surroundings. Cool people evidently had that air. And that’s the idea. Still, cool or no cool, don’t sit there with a toke in your mouth, indifferent to the people in the same room with you. Your buddies might want to take a drag from your stick OR get one out of your satchel to smoke on their own. Wake up and smell and the pot.

And Thorpiverse, dammit, quit Bogarting this plot and the ramifications thereof. You don’t NOTICE the restless natives who are complaining and caterwauling over the lack of direction of ANY of these scenarios????? We had Peppermint Patty up Tessi’s butt over her flightiness. Then Tessi got her head out of her butt, finally, and got Vic, who kissed Gil’s ring because Don Corleone was out of town to get the PA announcer’s job, to do his Sha Na Na routine at your games. But wait, there’s more. When Doug wasn’t kissing Vic’s butt (but I don’t know how many times butt is going to be the butt of all the humor in this post, sorry to butt in) to bring Milford Boys Basketball in the limelight, he was kissing Joe Friday’s butt to avoid a ticket and running laps. It almost worked. And no sooner does Joe Friday pull up his trousers than we have another change of direction. Like what’s going to happen, Muench is going over to PP’s house for some brownies and bandages and they fall in love when she’s taping up his ankle (you didn’t expect Rick Scott to do it, did you? He’s like Coach Shaw, a rental at the Milford U-Haul) ? And that might seem impossible, given all the bogarting, but we thought Doug was going to get a ticket the second time he got pulled over. And we thought Gil was going to be in the gym when Tom and Doug served their punishments. What happens when you have great expectations. We’ll just bogart here on the couch until something realistic comes along.

I am intrigued by dog food that can be delivered at your doorstep

Today’s headline in the Milford Enquirer

“O.J. To Challenge Uber In Milford Small Claims Court Over Disagreement On Delivery Of Product!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“I have enough issues with Milford Gaming Commission, but someone’s crossing a line when Uber leaves the Alpo in my parking lot when there’s snow on the ground.”

And further bogarting is evident in P1 as Thorpiverse nonchalantly assumes we dig the Synchronized Strobe Light Dancing Exhibit, like that’s going to spice up all the doodling that’s going on in the gym, streets of Milford, Corinavirus’ house, Corinavirus’ oven, Corinavirus’ outhouse, the faculty lounge at Milford High School, the faculty lounge water closet where Gil’s dumping his protein shakes, etc. Oh, this is entertaining, T-verse, watching 2 guys glow in the dark who should have been at practice ON TIME and would have been if Doug had told Joe Friday I HAVE PRACTICE AND DON’T HAVE TIME TO TALK ABOUT THE MILFORD MODIFIED DRAG RACE OR THE FACT THAT BILL GANNON’S WIFE HAS SEASON TICKETS THERE. Such mystique. I never knew 2 teenagers could dance to Alice Cooper’s “Welcome to my Nightmare” and they certainly have radioactive gym shorts appropriate for the occasion. Only Gil bleeds.

And speaking of Gil, WHERE THE HELL IS HE???? He just metes out punishment and disappears with Elvis and the rest of the UFO until Muench is begging for mercy in P3? Turn this saucer around, Elvis, someone pulled a hamstring. Plus I like to watch Alice’s demons and spiders fawning all over my players when they’re doing wind sprints.

The spray paint on those uniform numbers should dry anytime now. Then they can Strobe Light Boogie some more.

5:43PM-We were on stakeout in front of the gym with not a shred of evidence to work up a case. And I could sense the frustration in Gannon’s demeanor. He was getting bogarted on a useless chase and the Milford Police staff were too busy playing Yahtzee to care. He was on his 7th piece of Wrigley’s.

I was bored trying to figure out the Sudoku puzzle in the Milford Enquirer. I had used too many 9’s and I wasn’t about to ask Gannon if he had any 3’s or 5’s from his Sudoku ledger. This whole rigamarole smelled of bad math. We needed the Gaussian Elimination System and we needed it PDQ if we wanted to crack this renegade crossword.

We caught a break and none too soon.

Rick Scott walked out of the gym with his medical bag and tongs. He was on the way to pulling Dr. Pearl’s mother’s wisdom tooth

“Dr. Scott?”

“Rick to you.”

“Police officers. My name’s Friday and this is my partner, Bill Gannon. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly. Dr. Pearl gave her mom some Sominex so she should be asleep for at least 14 hours. What do yo need?”

“We have a suspect who flies all over Milford in his armored tank and we traced his whereabouts from Da Nang where he received a Purple Heart for smoking the Viet Cong in a couple of sieges to here in this gym.”

“I think you mean Doug Guthrie and he wouldn’t harm a fly. He may show up at games and practices at his leisure but you’ll have to confront Coach Thorp on that one.”

“What about his cohort?”

“What about him?”

“Any criminal records? Any suspensions? Did he have to turn in his uniform?”

“Thomas Muench? A coach’s dream. Not one to say to Coach Thorp take this plot and shove it although I wouldn’t blame him if he did. But he’s an All-American kid.”

“Fair enough. What are YOU doing here so late?”

“Same reason I have anywhere I go. When someone hurts themselves, I come out of the casket that Barnabas rents at Collinsport and attend to my duties as a trainer. Muench injured his ankle and Willie Loomis wakened me from my slumber. I had to put a Band-aid on it and kiss it. That’s what trainers do.”

“Awwwwwwwright, I get the point. Just stay clean in your coffin and we won’t be in the interrogation room with Barnabas. We’ll be in touch later.”

“Good night, Dr. Scott.”

“Rick to you, Gannon.”

“Bill to you, Rick.”

OH GOD NO Thorpiverse. This is bogarting at its worst. Like anybody is too dumb too see that when you run laps around a skating rink, you’re going to slip and fall on your ass. Yeah buddy, Muench is in obvious pain because Doug left his Junior Johnson trademark crescent wrench on the floor and Muench subsequently turned an ankle. Pick up your tools after the free throw shooting drill, Doug.

Luhm had to have sandblasted the floor with Turtle Wax and buffered it later with the Milford Public Works Department city sweeper. If Milford Mudlarks have a curling team, they won’t have to call Luhm in to do any maintenance once the Boys Basketball team is done with their game. And don’t try to pull a fast one on us, T-verse. We know Lake Placid when we see it. Doug and Tom have been running circles around the U.S. Hockey team for a couple of hours. If Tom got speared by one of the forwards, no wonder why Tom is in such agony. Oh, well, Marcell Irby is still available as a goalie.

“Special Delivery. Where do you want me to unload this Ken-L Ration, Dr. Pearl?”

“Over there by the file cabinet, if you will.”

“No problem. And I’ll get that pallet jack fixed so it don’t squeak.”

To paraphrase Casey Stengal, can anyone around here draw shoes?????? We have the worst rendition of footwear the last few days in quite some time. Don’t stick an Odor Eater pad in one of them babies, since Odor Eaters basically fit the contour of the shoe. You can’t fit them when the shoes are attached to the rest of the feet and will grow on the general anatomy over a period of time. You need a water sprinkler, not Dr. Scholl.

And trust me, I couldn’t draw flies when it comes to artwork. My niece and my younger brother are the artists in the family. That said, I could draw a trapezoid on a piece of paper and try to eventually get it to look like a gigantic sneaker for the Jolly Green Giant better than these latest sorry displays of Nike’s, Converses, adidas’s etc. Doug is wearing the same 2 × 4′ s that my mom used when building for Habitat. No wonder why Tom twisted his ankle. When you wear plywood on your feet and you step on a basketball that Coach Thorp forgot to put back on the rack, anything can happen. At least, that’s what Coach Thorp teaches his players when he’s finally in the gym.

Oooooookkkkkkkk, Gene Rayburn is back to restore law and order. Take ‘er away, Gene

“Dumb Dora was soooooooooooooooo dumb (HOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DUMB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) , she thought Gil was going to return to the gym to teach about _____________________________”

Thank you for clearing up the injury report, Rick Scott. You had me worried that there were ankle sprains out there that truly have artistic value. I reckon it’s all in the eyes of the art connoisseur when he or she is evaluating shin splints. I know saw can get ugly but some surgeons can paint the Mona Lisa when undergoing arthroscopic surgery. As a coach, I have never liked “Good loss”. No loss is good, the way I always saw it. Just watch Muench go under the knife when he is getting ligaments repaired and I think you’ll catch the drift.

And isn’t it nice to see Coach Thorp decide it’s time to BE at a practice if he’s going to call one but Coach, I hate to break it to you, coaching is more than admiring Henri Matisse when his Impressionist paintings capture the essence of Muench cussing black and blue when he’s torn his ACL. You might want to go back out to the gym and see if everybody’s in line properly for the lay-up drill. A shooter with no one there to retrieve the ball and you have more than slick floors and misplace tool boxes to worry about. But you run practice how you see fit. It’s your game. You just gotta show up for it first.

“Are you Mimi Thorp?”

” Yes, I am.”

“I need you to sign on the dotted line saying you received this package through UPS.”

“Fine. Just have the forklift driver drop the Kibbles ‘n’ Bits by the back door.”

6:13PM-We received another anonymous tip that Maureen down at The Diner had inside info on this Doug Guthrie. We wasted no time driving there, relieved that the Milford Fire Department had the flames under control. The Meat Loaf Burgoo sometimes created 3-alarm fires.

We sat down at a table that hadn’t been charred. Gannon ordered Chicken Flambe and Beanie Weenies and I ordered Fried Chili Steak and a plateful of onion rings. Apparently Milford Diner had a handshake agreement with The Varsity in Atlanta. As long as they were dealing only with frozen patties in the parking lot, it looked on the up and up to me.

“So what do you know about Doug Guthrie?”

“How should I know???? Do I look like his mother????”

“Look, sister, Frank Drebin might shell out millions for the skinny on the situation, but I ain’t a bank. I’d nail you on a Milford Police Statute Article 74 Section 23 “Unlawful Distribution of Provender and Imbibements at a Culinary Establishment” after your Bar-B-Q sandwiches flared up because you left the Wonder Bread in the Dutch oven too long but you still haven’t poured my coffee.”

“Ma’am, Mr. Friday is only trying to get to the bottom of this terrorizing of the city. If we can put this Panzer unit out of commission, we can all eat our lentil soup in peace.”

“I understand. Doug comes here a lot because his dad won’t let him park his tank in the driveway when he comes home from school. He orders a ton of lasagna. It’s real energy food for him. Says the farts on the inside of the tank sometimes causes his eyes to water but we sometimes let him use the Lysol when the janitor calls in sick. And he just LOVES to take that thing for a ride. Says if his dad won’t let him come home with the proper merchandise, then the rest of the town will pay. That’s why he speeds down streets, roads, and alleys. He once did an Evel Knievel jump over a line of tackling dummies and bragged about it here over the Tortellini and Peach Cobbler Special.”

“Ma’am, any word on what his father is like? His occupation?”

“He works in cooperation with the Milford Police Department but I have no idea what his exact title is. I never asked the police chief because he was busy. And we burned his pancakes.”

“No trouble, Ma’am. Joe, you ready?”

“Yeah, one more thing before we hit the road.”

“What’s that?”

“Next time you grill pancakes, don’t set the oven to 500 degrees.”

Obligatory somber music sets in as Joe Friday and Bill Gannon leave and take their doggie bags.

Today’s Black History Month entry is Madam C.J. Walker, nee Sarah Breedlove. She was orphaned at the age of seven and lived with her sister. She was abused by her sister’s husband so she managed to find a place to stay and grow up, eventually hooking up with a colleague who showed Walker the ropes on how to sell, in particular, hair care products. Walker’s own mother died of cholera, as sanitation and good nutrition among blacks were poor. From that, Walker learned the insides of the cosmetics industry along with marketing hair care and moved to St. Louis where she refined her craft. After observing other successful people with her keen eye, she had become so successful herself that she decided to move her operations to Indianapolis where a bigger warehouse awaited. She ran a first-class establishment, expecting her sales force to all wear a standard white blouse and black skirt and setting sales targets high, many of which were met. She had found that demand for cosmetics and hair care, when dealt with a shrewd sense of business, could shoot through the roof. Many times it did.

She went on to oversee classes to help train her sales force to budget money, keep accurate records, maintain a quality home life, and maintain a proper image. She became the first millionaire and used her well-earned wealth to build a mansion in Irvington, New York. The structure was part home and part meeting place for people to come together to talk business. Further success arose many times from these fellowships.

She was a philanthropist extraordinaire, donating money to several charities, particularly ones that would help blacks on their feet. She was heavily involved with the NAACP as she felt that blacks needed to organize if they were to move forward. Her mansion is a National Historic Site and also designated as a National Treasure. Please join me in saluting a woman who showed the world that she could overcome prejudice and succeed in business through hard work and determination and never listen to the naysayers along the way.

“And we’ll be back to see if Joe Friday’s stakeout at the Thorp residence leads to a successful bust this time after these messages. You’re watching WDIG-TV.”

“Boy, our latest partnership with Milford Nutr-Well Center has been going great guns!!!!! Customers are losing 50 pounds and savoring the Riunite Lambrusco dell’Emilia d’Italia on their way to waistline freedom. And I’ll bet that’s Italy they’re talking about but I don’t speak Italian even though I bet the bottle isn’t from North Korea. Who said our Free Yourself From Fifty Pounds And Find Free Frothy Suds In The Financial Future wasn’t going to succeed? Where are these people now when I see customers in Aisle 2 buying Lay’s Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips, Ernesto’s Queso Dip, and bottles of Kilbrin Irish Whiskey who have gone down two pant sizes? Victory has a way of making the loudmouths shut up.

But enough of weight loss and Jack Daniels coupons. Hi, this is Coach Thorp speaking on behalf of Milford Beverage Warehouse and when I found out The Bucket got nailed once again for ethics violations by the Milford Economic and Trade Consortium, me and The Warehouse owner just shook our heads. They should know better than to fool the public by shipping illegal crates of llama meat from Uruguay and tell everybody that that’s a Bucket Burger when the public is receiving its order in the drive-thru. Yeah, right, and I’ll bet those Bucket Fries didn’t come from tortilla cakes they mash in the dirt on the streets of Tegucigalpa. I wonder.

Let us get one thing straight. All our booze is ethically outsourced or we refuse to stock the merchandise on the shelf, let alone sell it. When we unload that El Padrino de mi Tierra Whiskey off the truck, rest assured that the agave that flavors and makes it 100% pure satisfaction was not inserted in a factory in Bhutan. Let The Bucket stick that Bucket Fry in their pipe and smoke it. And at $28.99 a bottle, ethics never tasted finer.

And I about puked when me and the owner found out that Bucket Buffalo Chicken was processed from sweat shops off the coast of The Philippines. How they found the buffaloes or chickens in South Asia, let alone sent it Air Mail to The Bucket is a question they never ask on The $64,000 Pyramid. But that will never happen here at The Warehouse. We don’t buy Diet Pork Rinds from Seychelles or Lay’s Salt and Peppered Reduced Fat Low Sodium Potato Chips from the slums of Botswana. And when you buy your 12-Pak of Coors Hard Seltzer at a scintillating $15.99, be comforted knowing that we dealt with the duties agent before the revolution raged out of control in Peru. We never deal with despots when negotiating The Good Life.

And we are sick and tired of The Bucket mega-bogarting the situation in Bulgaria. We know they need hot dog buns at loss leader prices but hearing unconfirmed reports of torture just so The Bucket can make their Bucket Chili Franks just turns my stomach. Let me make this perfectly clear, you will get your Lloyd Chardonnay Carneros 1933 Sonoma County imported from Iran without The Imam nationalizing the vineyards at a ridiculous $43.19 or your money back.

That’s right, we have our ethical ducks in a row, unlike another certain eating establishment that is desperately grasping at straws attempting to get a liquor license. They think buying Bucket Burgers from the islands of Denmark and selling Ronald McDonald’s sex life to the world without the sexual molestation charges is fair trade. Would you buy from a gun owner if he was shooting at your leg? Come on down and get ethics and booze all in one shopping bag and use your Beverage Visa Gold to pay for it all and tell ’em Coach Thorp sent ya.

Oh, come on, Gang, now you know better than that. That isn’t The Rolling Stones doing “Emotional Rescue” in P1. Where’s Mick Jagger? Or Bill Wyman? Rest my case.

God bless you, Gang. You are the world to me.

“Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend, send some over to meeeeeeeeeeee-“


At Milford Diner

“Joe, I see a strange man driving down the street. Wonder where he’s going?”

“Oh, that’s Coach Thorp. I guess he finally decided to get his butt to practice. Pass me the salt. This baked salmon is a little dry.”

To be continued

February 17, 2021

All About Shoes

Hey kids! Today you’re gonna get an installment of teenchy’s True Life Stories!

Back in the day when dinosaurs roamed the earth your old pal teenchy drove a ’66 Ford Mustang. These days ’66 Mustangs are considered classics almost on a par with Doug Guthrie’s GTO, but when I owned one it was a just a nice used car. While I was away at college I had a minor fender bender with it, requiring the replacement of the left front fender, the front bumper, and a headlight bulb. Not long after the repairs were done I drove back home to see the folks and let them see how well the repairs had been done. I brought a friend with me and that Saturday night we barhopped. On the way back home, much like ol’ Doug here, I saw the flashing blue lights behind me; unlike Doug, I thought I might be spending the night somewhere other than in my own bed.

Instead of “License and registration, please,” the first words the state trooper drawled to me were “Son, who painted yer car?” Stunned, I asked him to repeat himself, whereupon he proceeded to admire my Mustang’s paint job and its overall condition. I sheepishly admitted to the recent accident and repair and told him the name of the shop that had done the work. The trooper replied, “Well, they did a nice job, but I believe they forgot to hook up yer headlight when they finished up. I’m giving yew a warning and telling yew to hook them wires back up when it gets daylight in the mornin’. Yew’l see my name and badge number on that warning; if yew ever want to sell this car call the barracks and ask for me.”

Sure enough, the next morning I popped the hood and saw the left headlight connector and wiring harness dangling on the inner fender just below the sealed beam unit. I eventually sold the ‘stang but I never did call that trooper, though.

I’m guessing Doug’s having a similar experience with old Officer Wilbon here, but I’m a little confused about the tires comment. The Flowmasters probably let the Tri-Power 389 breathe a bit better but top end is as much a function of gearing as it is of horsepower. Doug might be implying that if the Goat were to run a little faster, he might have to replace its shoes with a set having a higher speed rating. Finding tires in the correct size for older cars is getting harder and more expensive by the day as manufacturers focus production on higher-volume sizes for current models. How that factors into Doug’s decision isn’t clear, and neither we nor Tom Muench have time for that, so off we go to Milford High and hoops practice.

Sorry for rambling on about my youth and the vagaries of classic car tires, but I figure it had to be at least as interesting as watching Tom and Doug awkwardly run laps for being late to practice. (Doug was so distracted he put his sneakers on the wrong feet.) Gil must take comfort knowing the hardwood is one place Clan Guthrie doesn’t lord it over him.

February 16, 2021

“Would You Like Me To Pour More Tea With Your Scones, Mr. Friday?”

Filed under: Gil Thorp — tdrewhardin @ 2:10 pm

This is the city, Milford USA. It’s a typical nowhere town that has more cows entering the stockyards than contestants at the Milford Elementary Spelling Bee but I call it home. I was born and raised here. And I’ve seen high school basketball games when I wasn’t supervising security at Milford Still Rocks Jamborees and I’ve seen Milford’s basketball players go on to start families when they weren’t doing 180 degree reverse windmill in-yo-face slam dunks that brought the opponent’s jock strap down to his Achilles heel. But when basketball players think they can rock our world and wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am-I’m-gonna-go-groovin’-so-you-better-get-movin’-Chocolate-Thunder-Express-glass-breaker-I-am-jam the radar gun, that’s when I go to work. My name’s Friday. I carry a badge.

It was clear and sunny in Milford. Snow was still falling. My partner, Bill Gannon, and I were assigned to the Illegal and Willful Unlawful Mobilazation of Vehicular and Generalized Automotive Operations and Proceedings Department of the Milford Police Unit. The boss is Captain Milton. We were strongly advised to be on the lookout for teenagers who were using the streets of Milford for a drag strip, especially when they had responsibilities to other obligations. To add to this byzantine state of affairs, one teenager had a dad within the ranks believed to have a couple of officers on the take to relieve Junior of his responsibilty on the road. Captain Milton was receiving some heat from the Mayor to flag down irresponsible A.J. Foyt wannabes and would continue to be wannabes with Daddy’s money. This wasn’t easy.

“Gentlemen, we got a spark plug on our hands and I don’t mean Delco-Remy. And I don’t mind telling you I’m getting tired of my ass getting rung out by His Honor when I’m not getting a plateful from the police chief. I don’t care if you have to use darts on his tires but nail this sucker so that we can eat our Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in peace.”

“We’ll do our best, Sir. Any leads?”

“One. An anonymous tipster called saying he saw a Sherman tank the size of a Kenworth flying past his house when he was shoveling the snow. Had no chains on his tires. Said he was afraid the punk was going to run over the children making snow angels at Milford Green Space Area. Called on his cell phone ASAP.”

“Could he identify the punk? It would help me and Joe when we’re trying to flag down this Al Unser Junior.”

“We don’t think it IS Al Unser Junior because he was seen at a Wal-Mart in Albuquerque. And it was hard to make a proper identification when the tank was moving forward down the street. You’ll just have to park on the street and wait.”

“We hope we don’t have to wait until the Milford Deputy Coroner comes to identify the snow angel.”

Somber music imbues the office as Friday and Gannon hit the streets.

And I can relate to Vic in P1 as it took a LOT OF NERVE to ask a girl on a date. I think we can all relate. But really, I think Tessi was just trying to get him to the Mudlark Girls Basketball games to plug the team, given Vic’s success with the Mudlark Boys Basketball teams. Granted, Tessi has been touchy-feely with Vic but touchy-feely on the arms and nothing further. Some semi-heavy petting but I’d temper this one, Vic. Sure, go ahead and ask her out but I’d keep an open mind. There’s still some homely dog who likes your spiel and your James Brown caterwauling in case Tessi gives you the stiff shoulder.

I remember The Gong Show where these teenage girls get up on stage to music, say “Boogie Fever”, and they’re wearing Arrow shirts and generic shorts and all they’re doing is pushing popsicles in and out of their mouths. Of course, NBC is frantically trying to get that off the air and it finally does but the damage was done. The Atlantic Coast part of the country had seen it before the broadcast was mercifully truncated.

What was funny was they didn’t get gonged when it was painfully clear there was no talent WHATSOEVER involved. And when Jaye P. Morgan, one of the judges, was asked to rate them, she gave them a “10”, pointing out “That’s funny, that’s how I moved up the ladder.”

And I suppose if Vic really wanted to be autocratic, he could make Tessi do the same thing with his mike. At least it might give him hope that he’ll get a date in the future.

“You think I should, Coach?”

“Why, sure, Tessi. A piece of celery is easy on the mouth. And my husband used to give me breadsticks before we got married.”

Because these Elderly Dating ads intrigue me no end

Today’s headline in the Milford Enquirer

“O.J. Reneges On Committment At The Very Last Second!!!!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“I saw her face at one on those photo booths at K-Mart. She had more wrinkles than Godzilla.”

Again, I salute all the boys out there who worked up the nerve to call up a girl to the prom or to a movie or to a basketball game or to a…, well, I think you catch the drift. And if this was a stumbling attempt to summon the gall to spend an evening with a member of the opposite sex, I can verily relate.

But Thorpiverse is once again trying to pull a fast one on us. The day before, he was simply texting Tessi. Nothing more. Oh yeah right, T-Verse, and when she finally answers, Vic is going to open the discussion with John Kenneth Galbraith. You know how girlie girls are when they talk about the Free Market Economy. As Sting once sung, your economic theories make no sense, Tessi. Yeah, you need to work this plot OUT of the black seam, T-Verse. NOTHING’S making any sense, let alone economic theories.

Boy, I can’t wait to see what they decide on the Single Bullet Theory. I think JFK got one in the butt, Tessi. The warehouse in Dallas was surely taller than the Mudlark gym.

“Here are those Basketball Braces and Supports reports you requested, Dr. Pearl, uh, er, why are you sticking a Magic Marker in your mouth like that?”

4:53PM. Gannon and I were on stakeout by the Milford Marriott. We had been tipped that this maniac in a tank was known to frequent this street. We waited accordingly.

“I don’t get it, Joe.”

” What’s up?”

“Why does he drag race in a conveyance the army uses at war games at the Milford Army Reserve Proving Grounds?”

“Not sure.”

“These kids nowadays. Give ’em car keys and they think they can do wheelies and doughnuts at Tobruk. I’m tellin’ ya, when I drove my dad’s Model T, I got the belt every time I forgot to change the oil.”

“I’m about to give the bull whip to that oversized bag of bolts flying down the chute. Let’s tail him!!!!”

We spotted a suspect that matched the description given by our own Finest and from people in the neighborhood. How that tank that was Archie’s jalopy in disguise got around, let alone able to smoke Fabi or Fittipaldi at the Indy 500, was a question only answered with oversteamed meat loaf and stewed tomatoes at Milford Diner. If that was Mario Andretti’s racer, no wonder why he only won one Indy 500 race.

If ya try ta summon th’ cour’ge ta ask ol’ Thelma Lou ta th’ Friday Night Dance but the can on yore end of th’ telephone ain’t workin cuz it’s a bit rusted out and therefore cain’t hear ya on her can, ya might be a redneck.

Okay. So Vic is not going to talk about Supply and Demand, Popsicles, or the Cubs. He is actually going to hit Tessi up for a date. But the answer wasn’t surprising and many of us guys felt the sting of being turned down, even if we were not terribly surprised.

But Tessi is apparently leaving the door ajar on this one so I feel it apropos to explore a few reasons why she turned him down BUT MAYBE may say yes in the future. So take ‘er away

“I’d love to go the prom with you. Would you be interested?”

“Are you serious? I was flirting with you because I wanted you to promote girls basketball because you could whip the crowd into a frenzy like Bob Eubanks used to on The Newleywed Game. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a formal gown with a boy with the voice of Dick Clark but a body of a Clark Candy Bar. Do you think I’m stupid or what?”

Ooooooooookkkkkkkkk, Milford wasn’t built in a day

“I’d love to go to the prom with you. Then go to a movie afterwards. I hear they’re playing ‘Frogs’ at the Milford Bijou.”

“I don’t think I can this weekend because they haven’t awaken my mom from her coma in the ICU. But text me in a couple of weeks. BTW, is that the movie where the lizards knock over all the chemical jars and basketballs and Gil gets asphyxiated in Gym B?”

This one has potential. She didn’t say “Yes” but she didn’t say “No”. Keep the crowbar wedged in, Vic.

“I’d love to go to the prom with you. Then afterwards, there’s a game between Indiana and Purdue at Assembly Hall. I have seats right behind Coach Knight. Wanna go?”

“They’re going to move our house over 600 feet this weekend because they’re building a freeway. I’ll have to sleep with Otis the Drunk in the Mayberry jail until Monday. And I don’t date guys who throw chairs at other players.”

Baby, I like the potential. Convince her that you didn’t throw a sofa at a Boilermaker and that it’s been well over 30 years since the incident and a prom outfit is in the bag.

“I’d like to go to the prom with you. Then there’s a Slim Whitman concert at Milford Outdoor Amphitheater afterwards. Wanna go?”

“Sure!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love the way Slim sings ‘Tumbling Dice’!!!!!!!!!!! It gets me so horny!!!!!!!!!! And wasn’t he #1 over in England?”

“Yes, he was.”

“I’ll be ordering the gown right now.”

Persistence and some yodeling of “Red River Valley” work every time. I should have used that for MY pickup line.

Special edition to the Milford Enquirer

“Dr. Pearl’s Grandmother Rental Vehicle Towed Out Of Pond; Grandmother And Friend Both In Critical Condition!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

sub headline

“The dating service warned them about the retreat center possibly a bit inundated.”

And if you look closely, it looks as if Vic is indeed asking Tessi to a movie. But hey, T-verse is trying to convince us that the relationship is strictly Platonic. Oh sure, and when “Parting is such sweet sorrow” was uttered, Romeo and Juliet were going to go do their homework. The Montagues and Capulets were on top of their kids when it came to school. No Montague was going to flunk and still feud with the Capulets. Or vice versa.

And keep stroking Romeo, Juliet. Love taps, friendly reminders, stroking, ways to get Gil to referee Mimi’s games when the Homer referee didn’t honor his contract, it’s all the same terminology.

On The Gong Show


Chuck Barris plaintively steps on stage

“Awwwwwwwwwww, Jaye P. Morgan. Why did you gong the Lady Mudlarks?”

“Because they’ll never have a career in Show Biz sliding a rutabaga stalk back and forth.”

5:03PM-We pulled over whoever was driving this mega-contraption in the snow at 93MPH. We might have been a mile or two off on the radar gun and I’d been bitching to Gannon to get to Milford Electronics to get it fixed but safe to say this tank that went wayward of General Patton’s outfit was not school zone speed. We had a good idea of the speed if we were forced to write a ticket.

“Awwwwwwwrrighht, you losers, get out of the car and keep your hands where we can see them!!!!!!!!!!!”

“What’s the charge, officer?”

“We’ll ask the questions around here, Bozo. You may flip off your coach with a couple of posers that have no answers but we’re wise to your bag of tricks!!!!!!!!!! You won’t go to Talledega that easily this weekend!!!!!!!!”

“Son, we pulled you over for the same reason we’d pull anyone over. You just can’t joyride your tank all over creation. We need to see your drivers license and registration.”

“Sure thing. Here’s my license. I had a bad hair day the time they took it. And here’s my registra-“

“Cut the comedy act, gentlemen. My partner wanted information, not a couple of sordid Robin Williams’s. I’m just about to nail you on Milford Police Statutes Article 63 Section 48 Clause 312 “Willful and Unauthorized Vehicular Transit with Intent to Convey Illegal Contraband and Freightage” but I couldn’t open the back door of your conveyance if I had a cannon!!!!!!! But we’ll be back with search warrants and a decent tire jack the next time!!!!!!!!!!”

“Officer Friday, we’re just carrying basketballs and our homework in the back seat.”

“Yeah, and the guy who robbed the Milford Federal Bank told me the same thing!!!!!!!! Until the German shepards sniffed out the 100 dollar bills under the Spalding basketballs. And the marijuana bags under the algebra textbook. Then you had one less player at Thorp’s practice!!!!!!!!!!”

“Son, my partner is just doing his job. If you’re clean, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, and stay that way. Or you won’t be skipping Coach Thorp’s practice to go to Pocono 400 this time.”

Somber music as Muench and Guthrie get back in the Sherman tank.

Today’s Black History Month entry is a shrewd, sharp lady by the name of Jackie Ormes, nee Zelda Mavin Jackson. She was a noted cartoonist who had a hand in a number of comic strips. For years, she penned “Torchy Brown in Dixie to Harlem”, centering around a carefree girl who eventually winds up in Harlem and sings and dances her way into people’s hearts. It was a smash success and made inroads among all comic strips, white or black.

Later, she ran “Patty-Jo ‘n’ Ginger” in the Pittsburgh Courier, a black-owned newspaper, which was also highly successful. For eleven years, this single panel featured a precocious little girl talking with an older lady, the lady normally a mannequin, about life’s problems. The formula was a resounding success. Finally, Ormes ran “Torchy in Heartbeats”, the little girl now more sophisticated and in tune with the world. She confronts the controversial issues, such as racism and environmental pollution with an aplomb and grace but still hard-hitting style that influenced change for the better. Cartooning had a voice, led by Ormes. Later, she successfully marketed Patty-Jo dolls as they again overcame stereotypes such as Mammy dolls that were pervading the stores. She also contributed mightily to the revitalization of South Chicago, mainly through her artwork. Please join me in saluting a lady who made her corner of the world a better place to live and made the world in general a better place.

FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!!! I can use reductio ad absurdum to prove my point. It was worth the wait after all those years in college.

Joe Friday is a police officer. Doug Guthrie needs to go to practice. Doug needs to get his head out of his ass and think about basketball, not cars. After all, he is the starting point guard, or so we think. We’ll go ahead and say yes because logic has no place for issues hanging from the Sherman tank’s bumper.

And Doug is getting friendly with Joe Friday after he’s been pulled over twice for speeding. Joe Friday wants to know how fast GTO’s fly. Well, Joe Friday, faster than I was going, given the weather conditions. Let’s just say I don’t want to wind up in the hoosegow, which, if I am interpreting Bill Gannon correctly, means jail. I don’t THINK he means the drive-in area at The Bucket.

And Doug is inviting Joe Friday and Bill Gannon to Milford Lounge to talk more basketball and auto racing and improved sartorial methods of police officers. And Joe Friday and Bill Gannon take the bait.

But this contradicts the Police By-Laws that police officers never get chummy with Pretty Boy Floyd. Therefore, the original premise that “Joe Friday is going to use a combat boot on Doug’s behind and get his butt to practice after he’s sent Doug to the Chair for running over Joe Friday’s mom in the crosswalk” is indeed valid.

“We’ll be back to see if Joe Friday resists Doug’s bribe of Pepperidge Farms Sugar Maple Cookies and hauls his butt to the Milford Chain Gang after these messages. You’re watching WDIG-TV.”

“Honeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m horny!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s time to come to beddy byyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s time to-Darling, why are there phone books stacked to the ceiling?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Shaw. Well, you see, it’s like this, my grandma is lonely at Milford Senior Living Center and she needs a night on the town. And thanks to Milford Geriatric Matchmaking Services Inc., it’s a done deal. They’ll find her a 93-year-old dirty old man who still likes to boogie to ‘Get It On’ or I’m a baboon’s behind without the Pampers.”

“Honey, I thought both your grandmothers were dead.”

“Blip Blop Boogie Oogie Upchuck The Rapper’s Delight, well, I rummaged through my family tree and found that I still had one living that was failed to be duly noted. There must have been a clerical error because the notary went to get doughnuts. Besides, looking up a fancy restaurant for her is a lot of fun. I hope there’s something chic that’ll offer denture-friendly lobster off the menu.”

“Honey, why don’t you put those phone books back in the closet and come to bed and see how denture-friendly I can be?”

“Not now, Mrs. Shaw!!!!!!!!!! If I can’t find a Delmonico’s, there’s always an IHOP. I’m sure she and any 96-year-old who has age spots all the way up to his armpits will enjoy a lunch date, stacked with blueberry pancakes topped with Aunt Jemima and goat-induced butter. If that don’t incite a romance when all the butter melts on the plate, I want my money back.”

“And I want something back too. And don’t they have to get cleared with medical staff before she leaves the premises?”

“Pancake Pancake Spit Spit Spit We Think Your Team Smells Like Blubba Bubba Bubble Yum, now, Woman, you are totally erroneous. She won’t get denied just because she wants her Cherry Bomb Blizzard at Dairy Queen and a male companion born after Alf Landon too. That’s why I’m buying her a jogging outfit. After she and her 89-year-old get done licking the French fries out of the DQ bag, they can run to new heights on the jogging track at Milford Community Center. I understand his 1-lap splits set a record for his age group last week. They’ll cross the finish line in a lap of luxury.”

“You can sit on my lap and it would be a luxury.”

“Well, gotta call Mudlark Lake Resorts. I understand they have a cabin exclusively for those well up in years. Fireplaces that run on balsa wood, beds made from concrete slabs in case the sex gets too strong and they get a leg broken when the mattress collapses, kitchen utensils that are made of Play-Doh for those with arthritis-“

“But I bet that 89-year-old has his in better working order than yours.”

“She had me there, even though I was able to get that reservation at Mudlark Lake Resorts. I have never seen a grown woman have as much fun with a 102-year-old man like she did. They must have reinforced the bed. And speaking of reinforcements, that’s what Milford Men’s Clinic did to my sex life. With treatment plans that work, you don’t have to be 100 years old to have the time of your life. Come on down and slow down Father Time and feel like a man in the bargain. Only at The Clinic.

Gang, I still say Joe Friday can outrace Doug’s GTO. Really, I saw Joe Friday go 100 the other day when he was flagging down Gil on a DUI. My money’s still on Joe Friday, contrary to what you think.

But God bless you, Gang.

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